You

About three month's after Marc Bolan 

got wrapped around a tree, 

and I was busy being two

Along came you.  

Hiding behind the son of god

When radios played Wings

And punks spat seasons greetings

Dressed in Westwood,

As you were the day I married you.

My perfect mix of Indian, Irish Italian 

and little bit of Jew

Who knew, that you being you,

 We'd hold hands and dance 

Down the south bank 

To make you feel my love

Sleeping in a drawer in Brockley 

40 years ago, your parents weren't to

Know the highs and lows of you

But they taught you how to love

And other quantum things

My agape and Eros

My morning coffee and

My Nighttime rest

My friend in fact the best

Of anything a heart can hold

My world less odd for holding you, 

My words were found in the eyes of you

Put down on the page in truth to woo

And keep you as you are

Sometimes the only thing I know that's true.

On free will

In kid days we were always cool

Though waiting to be shot

As if from a bow at history


Old men know the fleeting path of arrows

And how many miss their mark

Advising only to appreciate the arc

And the view from there,

With the harried battle far below.

Arrows that land, impotent in furrows

Or twisted to the back of a horse’s knee

Taking down no kings nor plunder

Had a least their moment there

Between release and fall

To imagine a softening enemy

That they may retire in.

Arrows cannot choose their bow,

It takes a helpful archer to know

The wind, the field and in the letting go

The adamantine nature of the foe.